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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24347869">trust fall</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/radialarch/pseuds/radialarch'>radialarch</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>communication [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Boot Worship, Injury, M/M, Post-Canon</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 08:21:14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,059</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24347869</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/radialarch/pseuds/radialarch</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Dimitri is in his office when Felix strides through the doors, eyes flashing. In his arms he is holding a pair of boots, and he throws a scrap of parchment onto Dimitri's desk. The note he'd sent with them: only a brief apology. He hadn't known what else to say.</p><p>"Are you actually trying to tell me," Felix says, in a tone which suggests the apology had the opposite of its intended effect, "that you're <em>sorry</em> for the fucking <em>boots</em>?"</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Felix Hugo Fraldarius</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>communication [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1812535</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>215</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>FE3H Kink Meme</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>trust fall</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>contains a reasonably detailed animal hunting sequence.</p><p>partially a fill for a kinkmeme prompt that asked for <a href="https://3houseskinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/476.html?thread=675548&amp;style=site#cmt675548">bootkink</a>, mostly feelings. look, felix's <a href="https://twitter.com/byebaicai/status/1189507827565510657">post-skip outfit</a> is so unnecessary, i love him</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sometimes, when Dimitri has had a tiring day—the flood in Varley, disputes over fishing rights in the Airmid, rumblings of the old church stirring up discontent off the Rhodos coast—he lies in bed and lets himself think of Felix's boots.</p><p>Well. It's not about the boots, precisely. Dimitri knows Felix has a sheath sewn in the side of his right boot; in long council meetings that refuse to end, he sees Felix touch the hilt of his knife through the leather, like it comforts him to think he could cut the throat of the tiresome Count Bergliez, if he wished. Dimitri should discourage the habit, but he is honest enough to admit that when the droning gets too much, the thought comforts him as well. The Leicester Alliance barely held itself together when seven noble houses held power, and United Fódlan has close to thirty.</p><p>Felix, for all his faults, takes care of his armor well, and the boots are no exception. Strong enough to protect the foot from an errant hoofstep, but the leather curls soft and supple around Felix's calves. They're fine boots to ride with, the toes narrow enough to slip in and out of the stirrups without getting tangled, and Dimitri knows the exact scent of the wax that Felix favors so that water slides off the curve of his instep without leaving a streak.</p><p>Okay, so it's maybe a little bit about the boots. They're hard to overlook. When Felix runs through forms in the training grounds—advance one, turn, step—a deadly dance he always pauses when he notices Dimitri; when Felix is striding up the hallway to Dimitri's office, the click of his heels clear on stone; when Felix drums the fingers of one hand on the heavy council table and rubs the thumb of his other hand along what must be the edge of the knife—</p><p>Well. Dimitri thinks about these things. He's only human. Dimitri found Felix attractive at thirteen and seventeen and twenty-three; the boots are not the beginning nor the end. Just something to keep Dimitri grounded, steady, when the enormity of rebuilding a continent crashes over him.</p><p>—</p><p>Three days after the envoy from Brigid arrives, there's a hunt. Not Dimitri's favorite pastime, but the ambassador had looked more and more strained with every gloomy day, and diplomacy is not always achieved at the negotiation table. Dimitri's father had drunk tasteless wine, gone sailing in tiny skiffs and come back faintly green, and when Dimitri asked <em>why</em> just laughed and set Dimitri on his lap.</p><p>"You already know how to carry yourself like a king," he said, warm with pride, one large hand stroking through Dimitri's hair. "Now you must learn to pay attention when you allow others to forget."</p><p>People are more careless with their secrets when the king has broken bread with them, when they've blooded an arrow in the flank of the same stag. Not always—not enough to save King Lambert's life when the conspiracy closed around him—but Dimitri tries to remember.</p><p>The quarry had been carefully chosen, a wild boar that's been trampling crops in the nearby fields, and the hunting party is small. The ambassador brings two aides, one of whom is familiar; Dimitri has Sylvain, who learned to ride nearly as soon as he could walk, and Felix, as tense as the ambassador herself. Without the diversion, Dimitri suspects, something will end up broken by the end of the day.</p><p>"Your Majesty is having enjoyment?" asks Petra as they mount the horses. A world of difference from the chargers Dimitri rode in the war: even Dimitri's, sturdy enough to take his weight, is compact by that standard, ears flicked forward in eagerness at the sight of the hounds.</p><p>"I have heard that the hunters of Brigid are very skilled," says Dimitri, with a nod at the ambassador. The woman's throwing axe is clearly well-loved, and just as clearly deadly. "It would be an honor to witness it."</p><p>Petra translates for her ambassador, whose face lights up—and then the dogs take off.</p><p>It's a long chase through terrain that worries Dimitri, but his horse is sure-footed over the uneven ground. Still, at the end of it, when the boar turns on the hounds, the horse's withers are streaked white. He pats its trembling neck in thanks, nods at the ambassador to say, "If you'd like to do the honors—"</p><p>There is a sound, and Dimitri turns.</p><p>Felix's horse, stumbling over a depression choked with green. Felix slipping from the saddle. The horse bolts; one of Felix's feet catches in the stirrups before he lands heavily in the dirt, a pained noise escaping through his teeth. That's enough to stop Dimitri's heart.</p><p>The boar, exhausted, is still dangerous enough to kill a man. Its glittering eyes fix on Felix's form; then, it moves. Something gleaming slices across its back, but the boar doesn't slow, seems to take no notice at all.</p><p>Dimitri says, hoarsely, "<em>No</em>."</p><p>He throws himself out of the saddle. It's a heavy landing, ungraceful, but he's on his feet. Felix is behind him, <em>safe</em>, and the lance is still strapped to his back. The boar snorts once, keeps charging, the last act of a desperate thing, and Dimitri, Goddess forgive him, draws the lance and rams the blade straight through its heart.</p><p>The boar twitches; falls. Dimitri lets the bloody weapon go and stumbles onto his knees next to Felix.</p><p>"Are you all right?" he says. "Felix, by the saints—"</p><p>"I'm fine," Felix says, trying to sit up, and hisses at the drag of his ankle on the ground. "Might've sprained that," he admits, "but other than that, <em>fine</em>, so there was absolutely no need for that <em>ridiculous </em>stunt—"</p><p>Sylvain coughs, and Dimitri realizes that the Brigid contingent are staring at them both. The ambassador recovers her axe and breaks into a string of syllables, hands flying.</p><p>"That was magnificent," says Petra, with a deep satisfaction which cannot all be the ambassador's. "My ambassador has insistence that Your Majesty must one day visit Brigid and allow us to, hm, recover the face? That is the phrase, is that not?"</p><p>Dimitri's throat is dry, choked with dust. "Ah," he says, and two decades of training adds, "That is extremely kind." He needs—Felix needs—</p><p>"Your Majesty," says Sylvain, and Dimitri sends him a grateful glance. "Perhaps you would allow me to escort these ladies back to the castle and fetch a healer."</p><p>An idea Dimitri should have already had, if he could think above the pounding in his ears. "Yes, that would seem wise," he says, watching Sylvain mount up once more. What else? The hounds will follow the horn. "And if you could—my horse—"</p><p>"Of course." Sylvain already has its reins clutched in a gloved hand. "I'll be back as soon as I can," he says. Pauses, and slants Felix a look. "Try not to be you," he says dryly, and sets off before Felix snarls out a reply.</p><p>In the ensuing silence, Felix says, "The boar."</p><p>"What," says Dimitri.</p><p>"No, not—" Felix closes his eyes and exhales. "The thing you killed," he clarifies.</p><p>Dimitri looks back. There's blood slowly bubbling out of its nostrils; its unseeing gaze is dark and furious still. "An unpleasant sight," Dimitri says. "Will you let me carry you elsewhere?"</p><p>Felix gives him a flat stare, and in the end only lets Dimitri lend him a shoulder as they make their way to the edge of the clearing, upwind of the scent of blood. Felix's mouth is pinched thin with pain as he settles onto the ground, back pressed against a broad tree trunk.</p><p>"Maybe more than sprained," he says in a low voice as he slides a questing palm along the side of his ankle. "Shame about this."</p><p>Felix is rarely gentle, even towards himself. Dimitri is so struck by the novelty of it that it takes him a moment to realize that Felix is pulling the knife from his boot. It's single-edged, well-honed, a balanced, beautiful thing. For all the times Dimitri has watched Felix run an idle finger over its outline, he's never seen it drawn.</p><p>Felix angles the knife against the side of the boot, and Dimitri blurts out, without meaning to, "Wait."</p><p>A stupid impulse, but Felix does. "What?"</p><p>Maybe it's the tight, careful way Felix is holding himself, like he can hide the pain underneath; maybe it's just that Dimitri has spent two years thinking about the flex of leather beneath his hands. Dimitri is not a stranger to his own desires, and the most unforgivable one is perhaps the fact that he wants to take care of Felix.</p><p>He has no talent for healing. "Let me," he says anyway, an offer of something true.</p><p>Felix's eyebrows draw together. His glance sweeps up to Dimitri's face, back down to the ground, and in that pause Dimitri has his answer. Felix has never had trouble saying <em>no</em> to Dimitri; he's been doing it all his life.</p><p>"Fine," he sighs, and presses the hilt of the knife into Dimitri's hand. "Do it quickly."</p><p>Dimitri touches the buckle at Felix's thigh, which makes the muscle jerk beneath his fingers. "I said <em>quickly</em>," Felix growls, in a way that means he is embarrassed at his own weakness, so Dimitri apologizes for him, angles the blade against the side seam of the boot and slides it down.</p><p>He was right about the leather; it's soft, parting like butter under the edge of the knife. Felix shivers when the spine of the blade presses against the side of his calf, so Dimitri cups one hand over Felix's knee, a steady, light touch as he maneuvers the knifepoint as delicately as he can around the swollen ankle. Felix is silent until the very end, when enough leather has been peeled away that Dimitri can wrap his hand around the heel of the boot and tug. Even then he only makes one small, hurt noise, most of it trapped between his teeth and swallowed.</p><p>"Better?" Dimitri asks when the boot is in pieces on the ground, wincing in sympathy at the ugly bruise beginning to bloom.</p><p>"Fine," says Felix, clipped, beginning to splint the injured ankle. Dimitri looks on, knife still in hand and feeling quite useless, and neither of them say another word until the healers arrive.</p><p>—</p><p>The treaty with Brigid is signed, with great ceremony, half a week later, and the ambassador leaves only after Dimitri promises to come visit the islands within the next year. She calls him something that Petra translates, with fierce pride, as <em>cubling</em>, and explains, "It has more meaning in Brigid," when he offers a puzzled thanks. "She thinks you will be growing and growing."</p><p>So that is the end of hunting, except for Felix.</p><p>The healers had confirmed the ankle broken. The swelling had diminished under the cool, clear light of healing magic, though they warned Felix not to run or jump for another week. Sometimes Dimitri sees Felix in the castle halls, stepping carefully in his turnshoes like that will hide the limp, until he notices Dimitri and jerks out of the way in a motion that cannot be Mercedes-approved.</p><p>The problem is that Felix is unmistakably angry, and Dimitri considers whether he has crossed a line.</p><p>Of course, neither of them are strangers to injury; it was foolish to hope that the end of war would mean the end of violence. There is the matter of pride, of the manner in which Felix was hurt, but Felix is the same as ever to Sylvain, which is to say brusque but tolerant. The problem, then, is with Dimitri.</p><p>Dimitri's relationship with Felix is not the one that Lambert had with Rodrigue; it is something fragile he has had to learn how to touch without breaking. Felix expects many things of Dimitri, most of all to understand him, and when the expectation is not met Dimitri doesn't always know where the failure lies.</p><p>Because he does not know, he elects to do something simple: he sends Felix a pair of boots.</p><p>—</p><p>Dimitri is in his office when Felix strides through the doors, eyes flashing. In his arms he is holding a pair of boots, and he throws a scrap of parchment onto Dimitri's desk. The note he'd sent with them: only a brief apology. He hadn't known what else to say.</p><p>"Are you actually trying to tell me," Felix says, in a tone which suggests the apology had the opposite of its intended effect, "that you're <em>sorry </em>for the fucking <em>boots</em>?"</p><p>Dimitri has had a long day, which Felix was not there for. There is a headache gathering behind his eyes.</p><p>"They were nice," he says. "I regretted that you were hurt, and for the manner in which I—"</p><p>Felix is pacing in agitation. He has one hand on his sword when he hisses, "<em>Stop apologizing to me</em>."</p><p>Dimitri stops. He looks at Felix: the fever-brightness of his gaze, the slight jerk of pain when his right foot comes down too heavily on the rug, and the way he flings himself into a chair, throwing down the boots so he can scrub his face with his free hand. "Felix," he says helplessly. "I don't know what you want from me."</p><p>A low, bitter laugh. "Of course that'd be your concern," Felix mutters. "You never could ask the right questions."</p><p>"Then <em>tell me</em>," Dimitri snarls. "Isn't that supposed to be your job?"</p><p>There's a ringing silence. Dimitri briefly thinks about taking the eyepatch off, pressing his knuckles to the hollow beneath, and forces his fingers to uncurl, one by one. "I apologize for losing my temper," he says, with a calm that had been drilled into him since he was six. "Maybe we should discuss this another time."</p><p>Felix says, like the admission is being pulled out of him, "I am not a good advisor for you."</p><p>The words are—uncharacteristic. Unexpected, leaving a dull silence in the room. Dimitri shakes his head and yet Felix remains, raising his gaze to meet Dimitri's eye with the steadiness of a knife.</p><p>"I don't understand," says Dimitri.</p><p>"You keep asking me what I want," says Felix. "As if you owe me something. When I should be—" Felix's fingers are back on his sword. "I train and train and I couldn't even <em>draw my weapon</em> when needed. What kind of a shield is that for a king?"</p><p>Something in Dimitri is unraveling. "Felix."</p><p>"You should be protected," says Felix, slow and brittle. "As I've failed to do. You shouldn't be the one protecting me."</p><p>Cold fear in the back of Dimitri's throat; his clumsy hands on Felix's thigh. "I haven't asked that of you," Dimitri says. He will never ask for that. "Felix, I don't need you to be your father."</p><p>Felix flinches, badly. "Then who should I be?"</p><p>Dimitri would not have had an answer for him five years ago. Two years ago. "You remind me of what's important," he says. The living, rather than the dead. "You keep me on course. That's what Faerghus needs from you—that's what <em>I</em> need from you."</p><p>"You deserve more," says Felix, tired, and the way he says it: that's a gift, something comfortable and well-worn in his mouth. Dimitri hadn't known that about Felix. They'd never had the <em>time</em>.</p><p>"If I want it," Dimitri promises, solemn as the day he took the crown, "Felix, I swear to you, I will always ask."</p><p>Some tension seeps out of Felix's shoulders, then; not all, but then it wouldn't be Felix. "I'll hold you to that," he says, an honest threat, and gets up out of his seat. "I'll leave you to it, then. Oh, for—" The abandoned boots tangle with his feet. "You can take these stupid boots back, you know, I can supply my own footwear."</p><p>Dimitri leans back to contemplate Felix, the long line of his legs. "No," he says decisively. "I think I'd like for you to keep them."</p><p>"What," says Felix.</p><p>"I want you to," Dimitri says with a sly smile, and sees Felix go faintly pink. "You did ask, Felix."</p><p>—</p><p>It's a week later when Dimitri enters the council chamber to see Felix already there. He must have come directly from outside: stray strands of his hair are escaping from his pins, and he's flushed from the wind. He slides his overcoat off his shoulders before he turns to Dimitri, and it's then that Dimitri notices the boots.</p><p>The sight shouldn't be unfamiliar, considering they're nearly the same style as Felix's old pair. Still the buckle halfway up Felix's thigh; still the soft leather clinging to his well-muscled calves. Dimitri feels heat at the back of his neck anyway, an undignified noise caught in his throat.</p><p>It's not just the boots, but the fact that Felix is wearing them. That Felix is wearing them because Dimitri wanted him to.</p><p>When Dimitri recovers enough to raise his head, Felix is <em>smirking </em>at him. "You did ask," he parrots, with glee unbefitting of a duke and the king's councilor, and truly, he must have planned this, because the rest of the council pours in, then, before Dimitri can think up a single word in reply.</p><p>Felix must have taken the time to sew a sheath for his knife into the new boot. His hand is curled at the edge of his chair, just visible in the corner of Dimitri's good eye, and every so often his thumb comes up to stroke where the top of the boot ends, where Dimitri imagines the butt of the knife must be.</p><p>Dimitri wants to put his hand there. To feel the knife and the strength of Felix's thigh, and to hear Felix's breath hitch in his chest.</p><p>"Your Majesty," says Countess Nuvelle, and Dimitri comes back to himself, smiles and says, "My apologies, I was considering the report from Arundel."</p><p>Felix, beside him, deliberately crosses one long leg over the other, the leather flexing as it moves. It's only years of practice turned habit that keeps Dimitri's smile in place while words about taxes and territorial disputes drift over him.</p><p>The meeting goes on for another hour. When Dimitri dismisses them, he has just enough presence of mind to mutter to Felix, "May I have a word, please," before he retreats back to the safety of his office.</p><p>Dimitri had nearly expected Felix to linger, but he's there not half a minute later, saying something low to the guard outside before he comes and closes the door. Embarrassing, how the sound of the key in the lock makes Dimitri's heart race, but Dimitri is beginning to think this is just the natural state of things when it comes to Felix.</p><p>Felix sits, without being asked to, boots planted solid and steady on the rug in front of him, and says, "So you like this."</p><p>Dimitri stands. Dimitri walks around his desk so there's nothing in between them except the ragged whole of their history. "I do," he says, because Felix already knows, and unlike Felix, Dimitri sometimes allows himself to lose.</p><p>"Dimitri," says Felix, and that's how Dimitri knows Felix is uncertain. Afraid. "What are we doing?"</p><p>They couldn't have done this during the war, nor before. He thinks maybe they never would have done this at all, but for the way that death broke and remade them into what they are today. Dimitri, too, is afraid, but his is the easier part. He's given over the core of himself before, and this time he trusts that Felix will catch him.</p><p>"Why don't you tell me," he says, and slowly lowers himself to his knees in front of Felix's feet.</p><p>Now Felix is still; now Felix is shifting in his chair while Dimitri remains on the floor, which is heady and terrifying at the same time. Now Felix lets out a breath, slow, through his nose, and Dimitri doesn't look up to see if Felix has his eyes shut.</p><p>"Okay," Felix says, and his voice is tight, strained. "Just fucking—touch them, you degenerate. I'm sure you've thought about it."</p><p>Up close, Dimitri can see clearly the grain of the leather. He considers it; then he presses his mouth to it.</p><p>Above him, Felix swears.</p><p>Maybe it's not about the boots, precisely. Dimitri runs the tip of his tongue along the curve of Felix's thigh, and it smells like leather, wax, the faint hint of sweat. More gratifying is the twitch in the muscle underneath as Felix tries and fails to hide a jerk, the groan when Dimitri pulls back to lick his lips. He has one hand underneath Felix's ankle and another behind his knee, the supple material fitted like a glove; the cordwainer did his job well, and Dimitri is glad.</p><p>"Stop," Felix gasps, and Dimitri stops with the strap of the buckle clenched in his teeth. He keeps his hands on top of his thighs and tilts his head so he can look into Felix's face, the way he forces his eyes open.</p><p>Felix raises a hand to rake his fingers through his hair, then thinks better of it. He touches Dimitri's face instead, the corner of his mouth, and around the strap Dimitri grins.</p><p>"I hate you," Felix says distinctly, tugging at a strand of Dimitri's hair instead. Then he lets go and says, slightly ashamed, "Suck me."</p><p>It takes Dimitri too long, trying to undo the buttons of Felix's breeches with his shaky fingers, and Felix nudges him aside before he can do any damage. "Too much for you, huh," he says, like he's not hard for this, like his slim fingers aren't shaking as well. For that Dimitri presses a kiss to Felix's knuckles before he takes his hands away, and is rewarded with a swipe of a thumb over his cheekbone.</p><p>Felix's cock is leaking at the tip. It's warm in his mouth, slick, and Dimitri wishes he could taste it. But there are other things: Felix's low groan, the plane of his stomach trembling when Dimitri breathes, the sight of his fingers digging into his own thigh. Dimitri curls his tongue, feels the cock twitch in his mouth, and Felix hisses and shoves a boot between Dimitri's legs.</p><p>"That's what you wanted, isn't it," Felix says, panting. "Can you get yourself off like this?"</p><p>Like that was ever in question. Dimitri's been hard ever since his knees hit the rug, and he takes the offer for what it is. He rocks against the boot, lets out a thin whine at the friction against his cock, and that makes Felix shudder, more wetness in Dimitri's mouth.</p><p>"Do it," says Felix, "show me, you—you left fucking <em>teethmarks</em>, saints, you <em>animal</em>—" coming with a gasp, and maybe that's what tips Dimitri over the edge: the warmth in his mouth and the thought of the imprint of his teeth on leather, Felix's booted shin firm and perfect between his thighs.</p><p>His head on Felix's thigh, catching his breath, Dimitri has time to consider that maybe, at least in part, this thing does have a little to do with the boots.</p><p>"All right, get up," Felix says eventually, "that's enough for anyone." But his words are softer, their habitual edge blunted. It makes Dimitri smile; he hides it in the crook of Felix's knee so he won't see.</p><p>He probably understands, all the same.</p><p>Felix is bright-eyed when Dimitri gets to his feet; flushed, with sweat drying on the side of his neck. "Was that it?" he asks, quiet. "Was that what you wanted?"</p><p>"Yes," Dimitri says, because it's true, and because Felix needs to hear it. "Thank you." He thinks about Felix training alone and snarling at the council, bearing the weight of what he believes is <em>failure</em>. Felix doesn't always trust himself, but Dimitri would trust him with anything. With everything. "What about you?"</p><p>Felix stirs, straightening in his seat. "Don't push it," he says with a scowl, and Dimitri is struck with a sudden, enormous fondness. Felix won't change for him, and perhaps that's what Dimitri needs from him most. That is the promise Felix will never say out loud. "It was fine. We can—well, if you insist, we can do it again."</p>
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